


A (wo)man sees in the world what (s)he carries in her heart

by The_Shape_of_Horror



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Reader, Graphic Description of Self-Harm, Masochism, Mental Illness, Morally Ambiguous Reader, Post-Halloween (1978), Reader Insert, Slow Burn, did I mention slow burn, eventual vaginal sex, wound care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27703694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Shape_of_Horror/pseuds/The_Shape_of_Horror
Summary: On halloween night you find a wounded stranger in your home.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Reader, Michael Myers/You
Comments: 22
Kudos: 147





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Featuring a female, morally ambiguous reader this story will touch on many dark themes, not limited to but including violence, mental illness, death, trauma and unhealthy relationships. I will put corresponding warnings for every chapter in the notes. 
> 
> TW: self harm, stalking, alcohol (mentioned), (unhealthy?) masochism

You first saw him on Halloween morning just as you were about to unload the groceries from your car.

A tall man in dark coveralls and a stark-white mask, stepping out from behind the bushes framing your neighbours' porch only to dip back behind them a second later. You didn't think much of it then - there were other things on your mind, and if some guy wanted to run around the whole day in costume you weren't about to judge him for that.

The second time you saw him left an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. It was after lunch when the nearby schools' bells rang the end of today's lessons. Children hopped down the stairs, all of them excited to change into their costumes and get their hands and mouths stuffed with candy. The thought that many of them would be wandering around on your property later today, most of them accompanied by their parents, pushed a cold sweat down your neck, had your fingers twisting nervously in your lap until you rolled down your window as you waited for little Jennie, the neighbours' kid you were supposed to deliver home today.

Minutes passed. Jennie was late.

Your gaze flitted over to the iron fence around the back entrance where Jennie's parents told you to wait, but it wasn't Jennie you saw standing there, instead -

A creepy white mask. Dark coveralls. A lurking stance around said iron fence.

 _Might just be someone waiting for their kid to take home_ , you tried to rationalize, swallowing hard around a lump in your throat, but you somehow knew that wasn't it. Like the primal lizard part of your brain was picking up on something that conscious you couldn't quite grasp. There was just something _off_ about how he was moving - his shoulders looked unnaturally stiff underneath the dark clothing, his spine too straight.

Before you had a chance to examine him further you saw little Jennie, who apparently forgot that you had agreed to pick her up at the back entrance, step out onto the sidewalk with a heavy pumpkin in her small, short arms, struggling between its weight and that of her school bag hanging off of one shoulder. With a soft curse you drove up to her and left the car to put the pumpkin in the backseat, her sunny grin dispersing your annoyance.

You didn't notice the white mask tipping in your direction from behind the steering wheel as a non-descript grey car passed you by.

The third time you saw him left you shaking, slamming your front door with more force than necessary behind you. You had taken Jennie to her friends' house for a halloween sleepover, wishing her fun and good luck with the candy, and when you'd turned around to head back to your car there he was, again, motionless in the shadowed drive-way between two houses - his whole body turned to where you had frozen to your spot. A cold sweat broke out on your neck immediately, your pulse surged, and you swallowed thickly; there was no mistaking it: no-one apart from you was on this side of the street.

_He was looking at you._

A high-pitched scream behind you had you whipping around so fast your neck creaked in protest. Your whole body lurched protectively, wrapping your arms around your midsection as if to contain your heart that felt like it tried its hardest to pound right out of your chest. For no reason, you realised a second later, as the scream was replaced by childish giggles: a group of kids walked by you, one of them wearing a horrible nosferatu mask, another one still red-cheeked from being scared so easily in front of their friends.

You turned back around - and the shape between the houses was gone.

Your drive home was very fast and very tense.

 _Screw halloween this year_ , you thought when your front door closed securely behind you, and you rushed to prepare for the trick-or-treaters that were sure to step on your porch soon.

\---

It was getting late and you were exhausted.

For every laughing, easily-pleased child you sent off with chocolate bars and sour candy there had been one parent, asking you if you'd settled in yet, if you'd stay in Haddonfield, how work was going. Paranoia stoked your suspicions. They probably meant well, were only curious about their new neighbour, but in your head they all had it out for you, were just waiting for you to make a mistake.

You were busy putting away the leftover candy when your phone rang. It was Jennie's mom, telling you in a flustered voice that her daughter had managed to eat too much candy and throw up on her friend's carpet. "We'll be back home before 12", she promised you, "we just can't leave yet. Could you please go and pick her up?" You agreed, of course - you needed the money they gave you for babysitting their daughter. Financing a house on your own wasn't easy when you could only take on the jobs in town that required no background check or solid ID and barely paid you minimum wage...

You drive up to the street Jennie's mom told you to, looking for house number 1543, when you see something that makes you regret your decision to come out here.

It's the man in the dark coveralls and the white mask again. You'd swear on it, even if you only see a flash of him while driving by. You catch a glance of him from behind, walking up the stairs to a house you think could be number 1537, holding something unidentifiable in his arms, his back still straight and stiff, his long legs taking the steps like the big object he's holding weighs nothing at all. He doesn't seem to notice you this time, though, and you certainly don't stick around to find out if he did - there's the house you're looking for, and in no time you sit on the Smith's couch, sandwiched between Jennie and her friend. Jennie's feeling better already, everything's cleaned up, and the girls want to finish their movie before you leave.

You agree to it, if only because the thought of going out and seeing the man again has you feeling uneasy. There's something _wrong_ about him... nothing you could put a specific description to. You just _know_ that you don't want to see him again.

An hour later you hear the phone ring over in the kitchen. Mrs. Smith comes back into the living room with large, unsettled eyes. A few houses down, she tells you, someone pounded on her poor neighbours' door, woke them up and terrified them with loud screaming. "Probably just a stupid halloween prank", her husband says from the hallway. Anxiety bubbles up in your stomach. This is a quiet town. It doesn't sound like a prank you'd expect from Haddonfield's kids that were generally well-behaved and harmless...

There's loud bangs later in the night, when you wonder if Jennie's even really watching the movie and not just dozing off. You know that sound. It's gunshots. Hoisting Jennie up in your arms and turning to leave you silence her whines with the promise of more candy. "I think it's best if we go home now", you tell the Smiths. They don't stop you. You wonder if they recognize the sounds, too.

Even Jennie notices something's wrong, and you turn up the car radio and pat her little hand when you reach to shift gears, make her sing along to a cheery song that you know she likes.

There's light in her parent's home when you arrive. Jennie's mom hands you a 20 dollar note with a sheepish look as you hand Jennie over, the little girl by now too tired to walk on her own. It must be close to 11 by now, and you rush over to your own home as a cold chill sweeps under your jacket and makes you shiver. You don't know that you forgot to lock your car, too busy hauling Jennie out of the passenger seat, and you don't notice how the right back door of your car isn't closed properly. You don't notice the red spots down the street up the walk to your house either; they are lost in the dark and between the fallen autumn leaves. And if there is muffled breathing from close-by as you unlock the main entrance it gets lost in the jingle of your keys, the loud _click_ as they turn in the lock.

You shrug off your jacket in the hallway, not bothering to put it up properly. Only one thing is on your mind, and you need it badly. Up the stairs, a turn to the left, and then you're in your bedroom, reaching beneath your pillow and pulling it out - a large kitchen knife you got from a second-hand shop when you moved to Haddonfield. Your shirt gets discarded on your already messy bed with no second thought, but before you put the knife to yourself you consider the scotch on your nightstand. _Might as well_ , you think, and you take a long swig straight from the bottle, because there's nobody here to judge you apart from yourself, and, honestly, you do that constantly anyway.

The gunshots remind you too much of _before_. No 'healthy coping mechanism' will be able to dispell the sound from your mind now.

It's this fucked-up little ritual of yours that enables you to keep a functioning front, the sharp, pointed pain as the blade slices the skin on your hip - your right one, as the left is a crusted mess of half-healed cuts and fresher ones from just a few days ago -, the slowly intensifying burn afterwards. How your breath catches in your chest in what you'd swear is just pain but deep down know it really isn't: it's satisfaction. It's your salvation. Every shallow cut feels like draining an infected wound, like you're flushing out all the bad that's pent up in you, all the anxiety that built up during the day.

The alcohol is setting in your bones now, slowly. It's a warm, tingling feeling, a creeping heat up your neck. Between your legs is a similiar heat, but you ignore that. _One more_ , you think, laying the knife flat on your hip, trying to get the angle right - you never cut too deep, never inflict more than shallow nicks that bleed just a little before they start healing up all too soon; you want the sensation of pain, the rush of dopamine and adrenaline in your system, not to seriously injure yourself - when a subtle but definite sound from downstairs makes you jump, the knife slicing down in a curved arc over your hip and into the soft flesh of your stomach just beneath your navel.

Blood starts seeping out immediately and you would be concerned if not for another sound, one that definitely sounds like footsteps in your downstairs hallway.

Your mind goes into overdrive. The knife almost slips out of your shaking hand before you grip it as tight as you can, your knuckles going white from the strain. Crazy thoughts wrack your brain in the second before you start moving, stretching the moment before your fight-or-flight instincts kick in: _they found me_ , one part of you thinks numbly before panic shoots up your spine, _it's the cops - they're gonna take me back - they're gonna lock me up -_

 _I have a knife_ , is the final thought before you sneak out into the hallway as quietly as you can, but you don't want to examine where you're going with that thought.

It's funny. Just a few minutes ago coming home had felt like safety. You hadn't bothered to turn on the lights because you thought you knew every corner of your house. Now, as you look down the unlit stairs into the absolute dark beneath, you realise you don't know them at all. Every part of your body revolts against the idea of starting the uneasy decent down the steps, but you have to, you have to... and you do, even if your legs shake beneath you, your breathing muffled as much as you can. You feel light-headed. Warm, sticky blood slides down your lower stomach onto your thighs. You're probably staining the old wooden stairs with drops of it with every step you take.

You're on the last step when you hear it, heavy breathing somewhere close-by, and it sounds oddly muted as well but you don't have time to consider that when your free arm swings for the light switch in a blind panic.

The bright light of your hallway lamp blinds you for a second, makes you blink several times out of instinct before everything comes back into focus.

There's an even heavier intake of breath that your gasp almost matches -

And then you see -

It's _him_.

He's a dark shape beyond the door to your kitchen, at the very edge of the light your lamp casts; he's a hint of white in a monumental wall of shadows; he's the boogeyman out of your most horrible nightmares, larger-than-life, inhuman.

There's a pointed silence between you, only broken by his breathing.

You can't move. Only look on in silent horror as a violent shudder wracks your body.

Searing pain sparks up from your lower stomach at that, makes you flinch violently, and you wonder just how deep the knife must have sunk into you upstairs when you reach for the wound and your hand comes away deep-red.

The shape's mask follows your movements from the shadows and he must have taken a step forward in the split-second your attention was focused elsewhere because there's enough light on him now that you see the mask tilt, just a tiny bit to the left, taking in your shirtless chest, the puddle of red that's formed between your legs on the ground, the stray smears of it along your sides and on your raised arm.

His next breath carries with it a low rumble in his chest, so quiet you really only hear it because you've stopped breathing, and he takes another step out into your hallway. Your heart is trying really hard to beat straight out of your chest, but you can't fucking move, you're frozen to the spot like every time you saw him today, like his presence alone disables your sense of self-preservation; even through the mask you can tell that his stare is single-minded, completely focused in on you and you alone, and you don't know what he wants to do with you but you're also certain you _don't want_ to find out -

He suddenly goes down like a stone, hits the ground with a dull thud.

Your eyes follow him and with a gasp you realize that your hallway looks like a crime scene.

There's blood everywhere, and it can't be yours. Maybe the droplets close to your feet could be, but there's a bloody handprint on your closed living room door, and when you stretch to look behind him - a considerable pool of blood gleaming dark-red out beneath his motionless form - you see a second pool where he stood and watched you from the kitchen entrance.

He's injured. _Seriously_ injured.

Your thoughts start racing. Did he break in because he needed help? You don't remember if you locked your back door earlier today - that's where he must have entered your house. What the hell are you supposed to do now? If you were anyone else, you'd walk over to the phone, call an ambulance, let the authorities handle this. But you can't do that, you absolutely can't have the cops on your property, asking you questions, digging around in the flimsy story you told in town about how and why you'd moved to Haddonfield.

You huff out a breath and start shuffling closer to him. You really, really don't want to, but you have to find out what you're dealing with here. With how much blood he's lost there's a real possibility he's gonna die on your hallway floor. And if you can't call the cops for help, you certainly can't call them to inform them of a corpse in your house.

Sinking to your knees next to him, careful not to soak your denim trousers with his blood, you have to fight yourself to reach out, grab a fistful of dark, scratchy coveralls and roll him onto his back. It's surprisingly easy. He's not heavy. From up close, the spell of the dark shadows in your kitchen dispersed, you realise that he's not as tall or wide as you thought, build rather lean and so out of it that his limbs offer no resistance to your tugging.

Your body seizes up again once you have him on his back - because you're pretty fucking sure those are gun wounds.

He got shot. Several times. Into the chest.

Terror surges up so deep in your bones you feel yourself loosing it a little. He's not human. He can't be human. No human should be able to stand up after getting shot several times, yet he'd somehow entered your house and watched you from the shadows while suffering from injuries that look like they should've killed him _on the spot_.

You reach out with a hand shaking so severely that it's a surprise you even manage to land it on his chest where the dark coveralls are soaked with his blood, clinging wetly to his body and to your fingers as you make for the zipper.

It looks even worse with his coveralls opened to the waist and the dark shirt beneath rolled up to his clavicles. His chest is barely more than a single open wound, bleeding from more places than you can clearly make out with how much of the liquid is smeared over the expanse of skin that feels burning-hot under your touch, feverish. He hasn't died so far but you're suddenly very sure he will if you don't do anything about it. Your terror subsides. Maybe he just got lucky and no vital organs were hit. He's laying on your floor, bleeding and passed out. _He's human_. He must be.

You're about to raise to your feet to get the stash of bandages and medical care supplies you hide beneath your couch - just in case - when he starts awake with a grunt.

There's no warning, no uneven raise-and-fall to his chest; he doesn't twitch, doesn't so much as need a second to come back to full awareness. Long fingers wrap around your wrist before you have any chance to react, faster than someone that was passed out cold just seconds before has any right to be, and they squeeze you, hard - so hard you hiss out in pain and try to wrench your arm away from his chest.

You can't. He's too strong.

It's probably just your mind going blind with panic, but you're afraid he'll grind your bones to sawdust with how tight he's gripping you, and you do the only thing that comes to mind - touching your free hand to his death grip very delicately, like you're trying to placate a wild animal.

Your fingers look very, very small on top of his.

He doesn't let go, but his grip doesn't get any more crushing, either. You search for his eyes, look up at his face, - or the creepy, bland mask that covers it - for the first time since he'd passed out, and you absent-mindedly notice that there's blood smeared on top of the white cheeks as well - but the deep-set black cutouts make it impossible to catch his gaze. You settle for squinting at the dark holes.

"I'm trying to help."

There's a slight movement when you speak, a minute shift to his body. He doesn't answer, but you're sure he's listening now. "I need to patch up your chest. I can't have you die on my floor."

You inwardly cringe at your wording, but if he minds you being so forward, he doesn't show it, only tilts his head to the side again, like he'd done watching you from your kitchen. You're not sure what it means, but you are sure that he'll pass out again soon if you don't stop the bleeding. "Let me?", you offer, tapping your fingers to his at his lack of immediate reaction, and there's a brief moment where his grip tightens again, threatens to crush your bones after all - and then he lets go, drops his hand to his side.

His lack of a verbal response unnerves you, but you decide to ignore it for now. Maybe his injuries prevent him from getting enough air into his lungs to talk?

You quickly raise to your knees. "I'll get the bandages", you tell him before walking over to your living room, and you honestly expect him to move in the minute it takes to get your supplies (and throw on a shirt you'd discarded on your couch the day before, flushing uncomfortably when it hits you that you'd been in nothing but your bra the whole time), but when you step back out into the hallway he still lays where he dropped, unmoving except for the mask that follows your way back to his side.

Something is pushing at your mind, but you'll have to ignore it for now. _Just assume this was a burglary gone wrong and he entered your house looking for help_ , you tell yourself, thinking about how you'd seen him carry something up the stairs back when you'd been on your way to the Smith's. He was unarmed and badly injured. For now he wasn't very dangerous to you, and above all, you couldn't call the cops anyway.

You start to feel a little dizzy yourself as you kneel next to him again, and your shirt is already turning red with splotches of your own blood at the front when you look yourself over, but your stomach wound will have to wait until he's all patched up - his injuries are infinitely more severe than yours. With your thoughts thus occupied you don't notice the mask tilting to allow the one remaining eye behind it to travel over your front.

There's a problem, you realise as you start unwrapping the bandages.

"Do you think you can sit up?"

No reaction.

"I'll help", you offer, but before you can reach for him his core flexes, the muscles on his lean stomach tighten, and without putting any pressure on his hands at all he sits up, his whole body stiff as a board.

You have to make a conscious effort to close your gaping mouth. Moving his upper body at all has to be excruciating with all his injuries, but there's not even a hint that he's in any pain. You guess that'll make patching him up easier and decide to take it as a good thing for now. Forcing yourself to ignore how the mask turns your way slightly, probably to watch what you'll do, you get to work, first pushing the dark sleeves down his shoulders and arms, then wetting up the emergency towel. You avoid touching his skin as much as you can.

You get the most normal human reaction out of him so far when the cold, wet towel touches his upper chest and you see goosebumps breaking out along his skin. There's no way you'll be able to clean up all the blood on his chest - it's simply too much - but with slow, careful swipes of the cloth you wipe away enough to at least be able to see where the bleeding's coming from. He's an easy patient now, if you ignore the way the mask is still angled towards you, his body pliant and - well, not relaxed, but there's no change in his breathing all the way through, no shiver, no flinch. It's unnatural how still he is, how even his breathing stays. You can't imagine that this is entirely without pain for him, even with how careful you're being...

Six bullet wounds and a stab wound. You choose to ignore the insanity of that; you won't be able to wrap your head around it anyway.

Fixing the bandages around his chest takes quite a while. With how close some of the wounds are you take a bit to figure out the logistics behind wrapping them all up properly without making it too uncomfortable for him.

He sinks back to the ground once you finish the last one, but the mask stays tilted your way.

"Good idea", you say more to yourself and partly because the prolonged silence is making you uncomfortable - maybe he's in shock, maybe his lungs got damaged from the bullets, but either way the constant noise of his breathing beneath the mask coupled with his unresponsive, intense stare creeps you out. "Rest a bit, then we can try to move you to the couch." It feels wrong to leave it at the wrappings, considering he got shot six times, but there's really not much you can do for him for now. Maybe feed him some food and liquid later.

No reaction again. You wait a moment and then shrug, cutting off another bit of wrapping for your own injury. By now your shirt is clinging to your front, sticky with half-dried blood and mottled with ugly brown spots. It's disgusting, but you're not gonna take it off in front of him, especially not when you see his mask move out of the corner of your eye as you roll the shirt up and tuck it beneath your breasts.

It's bad, there's no other way to put it. You got yourself really good: the wound is deep enough to still bleed, not enough to really worry you but enough where you know recovery is gonna be miserable. It's in a really unfortunate spot too: just below your navel, uncomfortably close to the hem of your trousers. It stings when you wipe at it, pounds angrily beneath the wrapping once you're done, and when you try to get on your feet without adrenaline rushing through you you let out a low hiss between your teeth.

The mask tilts at the edge of your vision. You quickly roll your shirt down again, uncomfortable at the thought that he had both seen you in your bra and potentially the sorry state your hips were in from all the cutting. Hurting yourself was a private thing for you - you didn't want anyone else to know you did it.

Then you pause. _The mask_. Up until now it hadn't even occured to you to ask him to take it off (mostly because you had avoided to look anywhere higher up than his chest at all), and he hadn't made an effort on his own either. You would like to leave it at that. He probably has his reasons - maybe he thinks it will make it harder to identify him. Maybe that's also why he refuses to speak. And he's not wrong, you suppose, his build and height are average enough - maybe a bit taller and more lean than average, but not so much that it would distinguish him in a line up. The coveralls and mask hide any other features you might recognise him by.

The thin line of blood trickling out from beneath the flaps of his mask around the neck and the thicker streaks on top of his left cheek worry you, though. By this point it wouldn't surprise you if he's hiding another bullet wound beneath there, or maybe another stab wound, considering the mask seems to be in mostly good condition, if dirty... you bite your lip while considering the situation. Maybe he'll comply if you reassure him that you can't tell on him anyway... in your head it amounts to less of a risk than him dying in your house and you having to deal with the aftermath of that.

"Listen," you start, clearing your throat uncomfortably, sinking back to your knees next to him before continuing, "I know you have your reasons for keeping it on, but I can tell that your face got hurt, too." No reaction so far. "I swear I can't tell the cops about you anyway, doesn't matter if I know what you look like or not. There won't be any of them near this house if I can help it." Still no reaction, not even a change in his breathing. You're not sure if he's even conscious - there's no way to tell without being able to see his eyes, and his chest is moving up and down with perfectly even breaths. Maybe he passed out again.

"I'll take your mask off, then", you tell him as a final warning, and reach out towards him -

Only to gasp in shock as your wrist gets caught in a an iron grip again.

He's fast. You hadn't even seen him moving.

His fingers are still feverish-hot where they lay on your skin, and when they start squeezing with a harsh strength that shouldn't be possible with his injuries you let out a low whine, swallowing the involuntary sound down when you see his head tilt curiously to one side. The crushing pressure persists for one long moment before his fingers go slack, letting go of you with a less harsh squeeze delivered as a final warning.

 _Message_ taken, you think. "The mask stays on", you say.

And your mind races because you just now realise how fucking dangerous he is, even with six freshly bandaged bullet wounds. He could have easily snapped your neck this whole time. You doubt you'd even realise what was happening before you'd die. Cold sweat breaks out beneath your shoulder blades and you cradle your wrist to your chest, swiping with your other hand at the dull pain that starts to throb there. You force yourself to get your next words out, afraid that you'll be too terrified of his reaction if you hesitate for too long. "Can you get to the couch in the living room? I think it's best if you rest for the night.."

You trail off when, again, he sits up without any help of his hands, and now that his chest is at least somewhat clean you can see where the muscles in his abdomen flex more clearly. You're suddenly uncomfortably close to him, close enough to feel his hot exhale on the side of your neck.

He stands up with far more grace than you - probably because you're scrambling to get to your feet and away from him - and without having to prompt or direct him he sets off in the direction of your living room. You let out a nervous breath that you hadn't even noticed you were holding in.

He still hasn't said a single word.

The heavy way his body sinks into your cushions betrays an exhaustion you couldn't have detected in his steps which were even, sure, and unnervingly quiet. He lays on his back like a corpse in a coffin, his limbs all neat and close to his body. Looking at him makes you anxious. Maybe he's moving so stiff because of his injuries - but you doubt it. There's intent behind his controlled movements, a sharp edge to his pointed silence and single-minded stares.

You force yourself to abandon that train of thought, afraid he's gonna pass out with how the mask turns towards the ceiling and his limbs seemingly relax at least a little into the soft cushions. "There's blankets beneath the couch if you need any, and food in the fridge if you get hungry", you say quickly, and even though he doesn't acknowledge your words at all you add: "If you start feeling worse, come upstairs and wake me up. Whatever you do, don't call - well, don't call anyone, really." You think you see the mask tilting a tiny bit at that, but you can't be sure.

Your nerves are on edge and you feel an immense exhaustion creeping up on you. All you want now is to lock the door to your room, put your chair beneath the door knob for good measure and crawl beneath your blankets, but you need to say your piece before you can do that.

"I have no idea why you broke into my house or what you did tonight to get hurt like that, but I won't care if you leave tomorrow." Props to you: you sound more confident than you feel.

It's almost reassuring when he gives no hint that he even heard you, and you retreat into your hallway, walking up the stairs to your room as fast as you can. With the door locked behind you you let out a deep exhale - you'd almost expected him to jump you on your stairs.

You wonder if he recognized you from when he'd stared at you earlier in the day.

You leave the lights on and sit against your headboard, the back-up knife you keep beneath your pillow clutched into your hand and the other resting above the bandage around your middle beneath where you can still feel the wound pound angrily to the beat of your heart. You want to stay awake like that, and you manage for a while - starting upright in a panic whenever your head slumps towards your chest.

But an hour passes and there's no noise downstairs, no hint that he's going to come up here at all. _He's hurt really badly_ , you remind yourself, and he got lucky that no vital organs had been hit - it had probably been the adrenaline keeping him up, and by now he was probably passed out completely on your couch.

Probably. Hopefully.

\---

In the middle of the night a dark shape steps into your hallway.

The shape's breaths are even and deep, unbothered by the tight wrappings around its chest. It takes your staircase without making sound, opens your door without effort, slips into your room without disturbing your sleep.

It looks on, dispassionate, as you twist in your sheets, spares a single glance at the knife beneath your fingers and the fluttering of your lashes. Its stare lingers where your shirt has ridden up your hips, on the angry-red lines up and down your sides.

It considers your exposed neck, what its hands would look like wrapped around the soft skin there.

You sigh in your sleep, roll onto your side.

The shape's head tilts, waits. You don't wake up.

A decision is made. You won't die tonight. Instead the shape pockets your knife, leaves your door wide open on its way out.

You'll know it was there, watching you sleep, when you wake up in the morning.

The thought of your fear is satisfying enough for now.


	2. Chapter 2

All night long nightmares haunt your sleep.

You dream of tall, faceless shapes standing over your bed and staring you down, impassive as they wrap their hands around your vulnerable throat, as burning-hot fingers press down beneath your jaw and leave you choking desperately for air. In other dreams the shape hunts you through your house, light reflecting off of a long kitchen knife that it buries with inhuman strength into your chest when it finally catches you, the blade penetrating so deep that you'd swear you can still feel it as you wake up in a cold sweat.

Awareness comes to you with a jolt. You sit upright so fast the wrapped wound on your stomach protests with a sharp spike of pain that you only register for a second, because -

Your door is wide open.

And your knife has gone missing when you grope for it with frantic fingers.

Maybe not all your nightmares had been products of complete fiction.

The image of him lurking over you as you sleep, helpless and unaware, causes a physical reaction so visceral you cringe into yourself, a full-body shudder accompanying the thundering beat of your heart going a hundred miles an hour and the desperate gulps of breaths you take down. He could have done anything to you he wanted, everything your night terrors had suggested and worse.

You can't get enough air into your lungs. There's a dark, fuzzy edge to your field of vision, a heavy pressure on your chest, your body feels icy-cold and sweltering hot at the same time, and you -

You're going to have a panic attack if you don't manage to get a grip of yourself.

 _Be rational_ , you think to yourself, angry now, _he could still be in the house_.

He could have done anything and, as far as you can tell, only stole your knife.

Eventually, with a lot of conscious effort on your part, you manage to calm down and shuffle closer to the door on uncertain legs, straining your ears for any sounds from downstairs, be it muffled breathing from beneath a mask or hushed steps down your hallway.

You hear nothing safe for the occasional car passing by your house on the street.

You don't trust the silence. He somehow managed to get into your room without waking you up, and you're usually a very light sleeper, a habit from a different life you haven't managed to shake yet. Walking down the stairs eerily reminds you of being in the same situation yesterday evening, but it's not as terrifying with bright light flooding in through the windows. Even your blood-smeared hallway holds no terror like this; it looks like a cheaply-done crime scene from a low-budget horror movie. The amount of blood looks almost comical: there's two pools on your hallway floor, several smaller ones spread throughout the kitchen and a few stray stains on your back porch where you check if he broke the lock on his way in.

The door seems fine. You simply forgot to lock it the evening before. You'll make a point to check for that every night, starting today.

He's not in your living room when you summon up the courage to step in there, it being the last room you check, fiddling with your hands in the kitchen for a long moment before you do so. Here, you couldn't even tell he'd been in the room at all if you didnt know; there's no blood on the floor and neither on the couch.

He's gone. You're _safe._

You sink to the couch, suddenly boneless with relief. You're not sure how you would have dealt with him had he decided to stick around.

You wonder if he slept at all last night.

It takes you a while until you get up again to start cleaning, your limbs still heavy with exhaustion. Mopping up all the blood turns out to be miserable, but the sooner you get rid of any incriminating evidence, the better. You have no idea what he did to get himself shot at, but whatever it was, you don't want to get tangled up in it. As far as you are concerned you've never seen him, he was never near your house, and you most certainly didn't patch up his injuries. You're already worried enough about him taking one of your knives with you - truth be told you don't know anything about police work, but the vague thought they might somehow trace it back to you if he gets himself caught is enough to stoke your paranoia.

When you're finally done there's barely enough time to wipe yourself down with a wet cloth and throw on a clean shirt before you have to leave for work. The bandage around your middle looks fine - exchanging it for a new one can probably wait until later. Moving around hurts a bit, but your shift at the gas station close to the highway mostly has you stand around in one place, so you think you'll manage.

You're out of your front door by the time you realise that your car keys are no longer where you left them the night before, in one of the pockets of the jacket you carelessly tossed to the ground in your hallway.

And the spot you're absolutely certain you left your car in stands empty.

Paranoia and anger curl together in your throat in a nauseating mix that you have to swallow heavily against. There's no way the police won't be able to trace the car back to you if they catch him. It's registered to your fake ID - the same one you used when you bought the house -, all your neighbours saw you driving it to and back from work every day for almost an entire year, and you also left your wallet behind last night when you hauled Jennie up from the passenger seat. It will take them all of five minutes to find out your adress and turn up on your doorstep to ask you some _questions_ , less than five hours to figure out that the answers you'll give them can't possibly be the truth.

Is him having the car enough reason to keep you at the station while they run a background check on you? You're not sure, but a part of you is already planning ahead. You can try to lie your way out of the station. _Officers, he must have stolen it while I was at work. I didn't even know it was missing!_ Less than five hours isn't ideal to get your affairs in order, but it's enough to grab what you need and take the next bus south.

 _You're overreacting_ , you tell yourself. Maybe he'd been smart and used your car to leave town. Maybe he didn't even do anything and only got himself shot because he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Yeah, sure.

The bus ride to work is torture. Your eyes flit over the streets nervously, half-expecting to see dark coveralls disappear behind a bush or the white mask staring at you from between two houses. But you don't even catch a glimpse of him - and neither of your car. That would reassure you, were it not for the worrying amount of police you see on your way out of Haddonfield. On a usual day it's rare to spy even one officer - now it seems the town is teeming with them.

It could be a good sign. You doubt a single person could cause enough trouble in a single night to warrant the attention of the full police force. By the time you reach work you've almost managed to convince yourself that something else must be going on in town, and that your car thief was hopefully smart enough to use the distraction to leave.

Work is very slow today. Little to no customers stop by and there's nothing else for you to do apart from lazily restocking the shelves and cleaning the mini-fridges the station uses to stock beer to keep yourself occupied. Halfway through your shift your wound starts to throb und burn angrily, and by the time your coworker comes by to take over you're using the counter for balance.

There's less police around on your way back into town. You take that as your cue to try to relax back into the seat and let your heavy eyelids drop for a while, but the persistent burn in your stomach makes it hard not to clench up every time the bus driver takes a corner too fast.

The walk back to your house from the bus stop is short and quiet, the chilly autumn wind pleasant on your sweat-soaked neck. Nobody's out and about, and you barely even see any cars on the streets. You're thankful for that fact - you don't need your neighbours to see you walk down the sidewalk at a snail's pace, clutching one of your arms around your middle.

Exhaustion and pain keep you occupied enough that you only notice it when you're already past Jennie's house:

Your car's back in its place.

It's parked nicely in its usual spot, and when you slowly walk up, anxiety building with every cautious step, you see that it's in no worse shape than usual. It could use a cleaning, but the windows are intact, the tires look fine, and when you squint in from the passenger's side you see your wallet, tucket between the front seats where you left it, with the keys right next to it.

Nobody's inside, but that doesn't help your budding terror one bit.

 _He left the keys behind_ , you tell yourself. That's a good sign.

You don't want to go up the way to your house. It's badly lit and surrounded by way too many bushes dark coveralls could blend in with. Why he would attack you now you have no idea, but you also don't get why he took your car back, so you decide that it's probably for the best not to try to attribute any motive or logic to his actions for now. Your head whips from left to right, checking if you can see a flash of the white mask somewhere up or down the street.

Nothing.

It's no use. You have to go inside. By now the wind has stopped being pleasant and instead has you shivering beneath the thin jacket. Your stomach feels sickly-hot in stark contrast to the cold, making you worry about the state of your wound.

You make it to your front porch without incident.

The house is dark, the entrance locked, just like you left it behind. You decide to be smart this time and sneak around to the back door, heart leaping in your chest whenever your uncertain steps in the dark noisily kick up some foliage. With sweaty palms you reach out for the back door handle - and find it locked as well.

 _He broke into your locked room_ , you remind yourself, pushing aside the exhausted relief that wants to take hold of you. You can't put your guard down just yet. He had a full shift of you being at work to get these doors open and locked up again.

Unlocking the door with fumbling fingers you then reach out for the light switch, craning your neck to check every corner of your kitchen before you dare to step inside. No sign of anyone entering. You can still smell the bleach you used earlier to scrub away at the blood stains and the used dishes from two nights ago still sit in the sink. After some consideration you grab the modest knife out of the pile, give it a quick wipe down with a tissue and clutch it in your hand. It's not exactly an intimidating weapon, but you figure it's still better than nothing.

Carefully stepping out into the hallway you strain your ears for muffled breaths beneath a mask, but the only thing you can hear is the low buzzing of the kitchen light.

Checking all the rooms seems to take forever. By the time you're done you're covered in sweat from head to toe, your breathing ragged even though your search comes up empty. It had been nerve-wracking, being suspicious of every dark corner, jumping at your own shadow, crouching down to check beneath your bed and even opening the door to the balcony you never use in case there was someone hiding behind the heavy curtains.

No-one's here. You're all alone in your house.

Leaning against the railing of your stairs for support you sigh and tremble, try to catch your breath. Your arm around your middle comes up slick with sweat and fresh blood when you raise it to wipe at your face, and your shirt clings wetly to your stomach when you roll it up to assess the damage.

You need a shower. Your stomach's a mess, the bandage crusted and stained against your skin.

After checking again that all your doors are locked you grab a fresh set of clothing and make for the bathroom, the wound by now protesting every time you move even the slightest bit.

 _Maybe the warm water will help wash away the anxiety from the day as well,_ you think as you close the heavy bathroom door behind you.

\---

You feel a lot better once you step out of the shower.

It's nice to fall back into boring everyday routines: brushing out your hair and pinning it back, toweling yourself down and slipping into warm, clean clothing, and you even rub some lotion into the sore spots on your hips. The skin there is tinged an angry-red from the warm water, making the crossed lines of your cuts look like worse injuries than they actually are.

The wound on your stomach looks better after cleaning it, though. It's a vertical line starting low on your left hip, going all the way down to below your navel and up to the hem of your underwear. As careful as you were, trying to get it all clean opened it back up again, blood trickling down to the top of your left thigh. You wrap a clean towel around your middle as tight as you can and stuff your shirt into your shorts; it'll have to do until you grab some fresh bandages from downstairs.

You step out into your hallway, close the bathroom door behind you -

and let out a choked-off scream when you turn around and bump into the solid line of a warm body.

The white mask hovers up and above you, way too close for comfort.

For a tense moment you silently stare at him, heart pounding in your chest, frozen to the spot both in surprise and by his quietly-intense presence. Then one long-fingered hand comes up to rest around the base of your neck and adrenaline bursts outwards from your chest. Suddenly you're fighting him with all you have, your fight-or-flight-instinct going haywire, triggered by the touch so close to your throat. You claw at the arm that slowly slides upwards until his fingers stop to rest beneath your jaw, trash against him as his head tilts to the side. 

It's like punching a steel wall - utterly useless. He's only using one arm, the other resting by his side, while you're throwing the whole weight of your body into your frantic attempts to get free. Your fingers scrabble at his arm, scratching over the uncovered skin on his wrist, yet he doesn't even flinch when you sink your nails into his flesh there, only tilts his head to the other side like he finds your attempts at fighting him off mildly curious.

Burning pain seeps in through the thick fog of your fear, has you stop your efforts when you realise it's not _him_ hurting you but the wound on your stomach that you managed to rub the rough towel up against over and over in your wild trashing.

 _He's not hurting you_.

Just keeping his hand on your jaw with light pressure. 

It's hard and requires you to swallow a whole mouthful of bad memories the pressure on your throat dredges up, but you force yourself to relax into his grip and let your body go slack, your hands merely grasping on to his forearm for support where you clawed his skin bloody. 

His next inhale is heavier, throatier, just a bit, but it's a noticeable enough contrast to how even his breathing stayed against your efforts that you pick up on it.

Then you feel his hand moving against you, skin sliding on skin.

You swallow down a whimper when you realise why: his thumb is resting over where your blood races madly in your vein, pressing against your fluttering pulse. The vulnerability has you strain against his fingers; you feel them flex before tightening, only a bit, as if in warning.

Your head falls back against the wall in submission where you lift it, partly to get a look at his masked face, partly to offer up your throat to him.

It feels like you're serving yourself up on a silver platter, has you twitch with nerves. 

Again there's an ever-so-slightly heavier intake of breath that you only notice because you're practically chest-to-chest and the mask amplifies the sound of his breathing.

Instead of finding two deep-set holes your eyes meet his, made visible by your hallway lamp and the proximity between your bodies. Even though you didn't consciously imagine them you're still surprised by how bright and blue they are, and although the left one looks bruised and almost swollen shut they still stare you down with an uncomfortable intensity.

Quickly you slide your gaze down the side of his mask again, put off by how weirdly intimate it feels looking into someone's eyes while the warmth of their hand still rests on your neck.

You have no idea how long you stay like that, but it's long enough that your pulse has slowed to a nervous flutter instead of the panicked pounding from before.

The hot swipe of his thumb over your skin has it starting to race all over again.

You hiss at him, involuntarily, as the finger settles back in place, light pressure on your pulse point allowing him to feel the new surge of fear his movement triggered in you. His head tilts again, slowly, from left to right, like he's considering the nervous flush traveling up from your chest and your huffed, panting breaths from every angle. A cold shiver dances down your neck even beneath the stiffling warmth his skin radiates against you, goosebumps breaking out beneath his touch.

_He's playing with you._

After what feels like an eternity of you staring awkwardly at his chest while he's keeping his grip on your neck, occasionally shifting the position of his thumb, you feel his fingers ease up and slide down; they linger on the base of your throat for a moment before he drops his hand off of you completely.

You're agonizing over whether or not he'll allow you to step away when he frees you from having to make that decision, side-stepping you while keeping his spine perfectly straight, taking your stairs at an almost casual pace.

It's both awe-inspiring and terrifying, watching him move in your illuminated hallway. You can clearly see the absolute control and precision behind every movement, the unhurried grace in every step. 

You stay frozen to your spot until you see the back of his coveralls turn and step around the corner at the base of your stairs. As soon as he's out of your sight you all but run into your bedroom where you pick up the sad little knife you got out of the pile of dishes, angry at yourself for leaving it on your nightstand in the first place. By the time you'd been in there to pick up a change of clothing you had felt safe, had been sure that you were alone in your house.

Well, hadn't that turned out to be a terrible assumption. He must have been in here the whole time, you think; probably ever since he came back with your car, whenever that might have been.

For a moment you contemplate brandishing your measly weapon at him when you join him downstairs, but after getting shot six times you don't think that something that amounts at best to a breakfast knife will particularly impress him or make him less likely to grab you again. Better to hide it in the hem of your trousers as a surprise should he try anything harmful next time.

Your jaw hits the floor when you step through the open living room door, alerted to his presence there by soft rustling.

He's in the process of pulling down the zipper of his coveralls, parts of his shoulders and chest already exposed to the soft light of your living room lamp. His eyes are hidden behind the deep-set holes of the mask again, but you don't need to see them to know that his attention snaps to you the moment you enter the room. You gape at him, unable to make any sense of his actions, eyes following the journey the zipper takes over the flat plane of his chest and down to his waist.

_Oh._

You flush, feeling like an idiot when you see the edge of a white bandage sticking out around his clavicles.

The coveralls slide off his shoulders, revealing the absolute terrible state his chest is in.

You suck in a breath.

The dark shirt beneath is plastered to his skin, torn in some places and soaked in others, all but fusing with the disgusting bandages beneath. It looks like all of his wounds opened back up again some time between yesterday night and now, the wrappings forming bumpy clumps beneath the fabric above. He doesn't hesitate to shrug the shirt, dropping it unceremoniously on the ground; two bandages come off with it, fresh blood spilling over his abdomen not a second later.

The nonchalance with which he treats his own injuries is stunning, like the seriousness of his wounds doesn't register to him at all.

You're shocked out of your silent staring when the phone rings, flinching at the loud sound in the silence between you. His face whips around at the sound, the first obvious reaction you see from him to outside stimuli - or the second, if you count the increased speed of his breathing when he'd grabbed you -, focuses in on the phone for a second before it slides back to rest on you.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware that it didn't even occur to you to speak before now.

His pointed silence seems to be infectuous.

"Can I take that call?"

No reaction.

You inch your hand towards the receiver, ready to drop your arm if he shows any sign of displeasure, but he doesn't; in fact, it's like he already forgot about the phone, hands reaching up his own chest to tear and pull at the remaining bandages.

Jennie's mom starts talking before you even get to say your name into the receiver.

"Sorry for calling so late, but I saw the light on your front porch and thought you might be back from work - did you see the news?"

You tell her no, watching your uninvited guest out of the corner of your eye.

"Well, turn on your TV then! They're live right now."

"Hold on."

You reach for the remote, switching through channels until you find the local news station.

The mask turns in the direction of the flickering lights of your tv screen, stays there as the static clears to show two well-dressed reporters talking directly to the camera with serious expressions on their faces.

"We repeat, three teenagers have been found killed last night on the upper floor of a residence in north-western Haddonfield. Police confirm the suspect to be Michael Myers, 21, whom we previously reported on as missing as he escaped during an incident at Smith's Grove mental hospital on the night of october 30th. Myers was admitted for killing his older sister at the age of six and has spent the last 15 years in extensive psychiatric care under one Dr. Loomis who reported him missing after the incident took place."

There's a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

"That's awful", you say into the speaker, "thank you for telling me."

"Keep watching! And be careful. I'll call you tomorrow, I need to convince Jennie to go to sleep now -"

You hang up on her before she's finished talking, your fingers shaking so much that you almost drop the phone in the process of putting it back in its place on your nightstand. The footage on your tv screen changes to a man in uniform now, holding his cap in one hand and the paper he reads his statement from in the other.

"Myers was last seen attacking a young woman on october 31st, some time between nine and eleven p.m. We have eye-witnesses and proof that he sustained injuries during this attack that he has most likely submitted to since then. We urge everyone to keep an eye out and call us for any information that might help."

_Injuries that he most likely submitted to. Like six bullets to the chest?_

_Three teenagers have been found killed._

_Killed._

"Myers wears dark clothing and a halloween mask, and you will see his most recent picture on your screen in a moment. And I repeat, please call us if you have any information regarding this case."

Dark clothing and a halloween mask.

It's him. He's that murderer.

_He's Michael Myers._

And, to your utter astonishment, he doesn't seem to care at all about you finding out, hands back at his chest to rip away the remaining bandages as a screen-filling picture of what is assumably his face flashes up on your tv.

He doesn't look like a murderer, you think - at least nothing like what you've come to expect one to look like. The picture quality isn't great but you can make out curly brown hair and a sharp jawline when you squint really hard.

It's hard to imagine him really looking like that under the horrifying white mask.

You're aware that you're in shock, your brain incapable of processing that you have a serial killer in your living room. It feels like a switch got hit in your head that turned off every immediate emotional response. You've felt like this once before in your life, but that doesn't make it any less disorientating.

He broke into your house at the tail-end of a killing spree yesterday night. The implication is not lost on you, but you shove it aside to deal with later.

When you look over at him the last bandage is gone, carelessly tossed aside to the ground like his discarded shirt, and the mask is focused on you, unmoving.

He probably wants you to patch him up again. Maybe that's why he came back here tonight in the first place. You can't blame him - his chest is painted red all over again, crusted with old, dried blood, slick with sweat and grime where the shirt had clung to his skin, and he can't go to a hospital for obvious reasons. You would honestly be surprised if his wounds _don't_ end up getting infected at this point.

"Sit down, please", you say as you make for the kitchen, surprised when you come back with a wet towel and find that he did as you asked.

He looks _very_ out of place on your cozy, worn-down couch, sitting on the edge with a perfectly straight spine, not reclining into the cushions in the least, like he doesn't know how to be comfortable.

You can clean and rebandage him without incident; he's looking at the tv where the program has switched to food commercials with a far-away expression in the one blue eye visible beneath the mask. It's odd to see him this calm. You wonder if he's exhausted. Probably, considering he most likely didn't sleep much at all since escaping from the hospital two days ago.

You inspect his wounds while you wipe at them, careful to always keep the cloth between your skin, silently in awe at the rate they're healing at. Your own stomach wound - which you will have to take care of after you're done with him, you realise - looked almost unchanged when you cleaned it in the shower.

His wounds look like they got several _days_ worth of healing past them already.

"All done", you finally tell him, taking back a step and rolling up your own shirt before even thinking about it, freezing in the middle of the movement when his head slides around to look at you.

You wait. Consider.

He's a serial killer. He survived six gunshots to the chest, and his grip with one hand was stronger than the full power of all of your muscles combined.

 _Fuck it_.

It doesn't matter if you show him any more vulnerability; you're completely at his mercy anyway.

You push the shirt up beneath your breasts where you pin it with your arms; then you grab the dirty towel, trying to find a somewhat-clean corner.

Your wound looks angry, swollen, it's hot to the touch, and you let out an involuntary hiss when you pat it with the towel, clench your teeth when you go about cleaning it.

While wrapping yourself up you try to ignore his eye on you but fail. It's hard with the quiet intensity back in his posture, the curious way he's holding his head.

You're trembling by the time you're done and relieved to tuck your shirt back down.

He turns to look back at the tv, ignoring you while you clean up the mess in your living room.

In the kitchen you wolf down a granola bar and then another in lieu of a proper dinner, and after some consideration you set some out on the counter for him too in case he gets hungry during the night. When you lean against the frame of the living room door you see that he hasn't moved a bit, still fixed to the couch, only turning his head to stare at you as soon as you enter the room. "I'll go to bed now", you tell him, not surprised when you don't get a reaction. You fidged before your next bit, not sure if you dare to say it.

"Listen - it's probably for the best if you stay for the night, or at least lay low for a while... there's a lot of police in town, looking for you."

Still no reaction.

Shit.

You _need_ him to lay low - every day he's driving around in your car poses the danger of leading the police to your doorstep, and if he starts killing again while they're not absolutely convinced he's dead, the amount of police in the city is only going to increase.

(You think you'll start preparing for your departure from Haddonfield tomorrow. You patched up a serial killer. A serial killer drove around in your car, potentially got seen in small Haddonfield where everbody knows everybody. You don't see how you could possibly get out of this one unscathed.)

So you try something dangerous and stupid.

_"Michael."_

His name feels weird on your tongue, too normal for someone who killed three people less than 24 hours ago.

He takes a fast, heavy breath at the sound of his name. You don't know if that's a good sign but decide to press on.

"Please stay inside for a while. Don't go out into town tomorrow."

No reaction. Well, you tried.

"Good night", you tell him before walking upstairs, closing your bedroom door behind you. You lock the door after some consideration, push the chair back up beneath the door handle, more to make a point than really believing it'll keep him out.

And then you fall into bed, out like a light as soon as your head hits the pillow.

\---

You wake up in the middle of the night to a panic attack, your whole body seizing painfully, dry sobs heaving in your throat. It's fear and guilt and anxiety all mixed up, a horrible combination that sits heavily in your bones, keeps you twisting in your sheets for almost a full hour before you fall back from the last tremors with a shudder, pressing one of your pillows against the angry throb in your stomach.

You helped a serial killer. You're _helping_ a serial killer. A serial killer had his fingers on your throat, felt out the thrum of your pulse. You touched the naked chest of a man that had killed three people the night before, let him watch you as you patched yourself up in front of him, felt his intense stare on the bared expanse of your skin.

It's sick. _You're_ _sick_. The right thing to do would be alerting the police before he starts killing again. But you won't do that, will you? Because then it's off to jail with you, or worse, and you're too selfish to let that happen.

If he kills again, you're complicit. Both in mind as well as in a legal sense.

But try as you might, you can't convince yourself to do the right thing, no matter how much abuse you hurl at yourself.

Eventually you fall back asleep, disgusted and disappointed with yourself.

\---

The shape stands above you, watches as you sleep.

It breathes heavily and raspy as it stares at your throat, as it knows what it feels like to wrap its fingers around there now, knows how your blood feels rushing beneath your skin.

You make a soft noise in your sleep, something between a sigh and a moan, between discomfort and pleasure.

The shape's hand involuntarily clenches around the handle of the knife in its hand, rythmically in time to the pulse it sees fluttering in your neck.

It waits. It considers.

Its heart beats evenly but the beat keeps accelerating; at some point in the night it turns abruptly, mechanically, slides out of your house without making sound. 

Tonight the shape hunts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the lines at the end are inspired / taken from the official novelization of Halloween 1978 by Curtis Richard.  
> For full disclore, I don't even like that novel, I just like some of its takes on Michael and his character. =)


	3. Chapter 3

There's a sound you feel you _should_ know but can't quite place.   
  
It drifts into your sleep slowly, from far-off, warped and distorted like you're hearing it from underwater, blends with your nightmares like the background track to a horror movie. The sound is a quiet rumble in the back of your head when behind your still-shut eyes you see blood splatter over perfectly white kitchen tiles; it rises in pitch to match the wounded scream that tears itself from your mouth as a blunt force splits your lower lip, as cold hands grab at you and wrap mercilessly around your throat.  
  
A cheery jingle turns into the sound cue for a heavy plastic bag to drag along the ground, the imagery so disturbing that it's almost worse than the real thing had been.  
  
Your fingers reach for the nightstand before you even consciously register that the background noise is your alarm clock, blaring its annoying upbeat tune loud enough to wake your neighbours two houses over and save you from getting to the worst part of that particular memory. You're not awake enough to keep your wound in mind however, and the stretch to reach the off-switch has you groan out in pain, pressing both hands on top of your stomach, clutching the cloth of the bandage that you find soaked with your own sweat.  
  
It must have been a fever dream that kept you under for so long when you usually jump up at the first sound of the alarm. You find the skin around the wrapping clammy and hot when you kick off the covers and pull up your shirt, feverish against the cold air.  
  
A heavy, raspy breath has your eyes snap open, a surprised hiss escaping from between your clenched teeth.  
  
He stands off to the side of your bed, spine straight and graceful, shoulders stiff and motionless, his chin pointed downwards to allow one icy-blue eye to look at your exposed midriff with almost obsessive attention. Even in broad daylight where he's more man and less inhuman shape it's unsettling to be at the center of that single-minded focus, more so when his head tilts curiously at the sight of your heaving chest, gaze slowly moving up over your hips to where you feel a nervous flush spreading on your neck.   
  
You hope your bra isn't sticking out from under your shirt again.  
  
There's a visible tension to him as you move to sit up, a hard edge to his stare that hadn't been there a moment ago, and when he takes a small step closer it looks almost involuntary, like for once he's not in absolute control over every small movement of his body. You expect him to reach out and stop you as you pull your shirt back down over your waist, expect the stiffling warmth of his long fingers around your wrist or throat again, pushing you down, holding you until _he_ decides he's done looking -  
  
But the moment passes and he does nothing, only watches as you sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed.  
  
You shiver beneath his stare, heart pounding away in your chest.  
  
_You didn't hear him breathing before you rolled up your shirt._  
  
You push that thought away, not wanting to deal with all of its horrifying implications.  
  
He keeps hovering by your bed when you stand up on uncertain legs and collect the various items you need for your morning routine. Now that the strained moment between you has passed he's back to his usual motionless stance, breathing deep and even from beneath the mask, only turning his head to follow your movements around the room. It's fascinating how he manages to be this terrifying against the backdrop of sunrays filtering in through your window. There's a casual, predatory confidence to his stillness - he's stronger than you, faster; you have no chance to escape him, and he _knows_. The height difference between you has him loom over you without trying and you have to crane your neck to meet his one visible eye even after standing up.   
  
"Good morning", you say quietly from between your doorframe, fresh clothing tucked under your arm, your gaze flitting away from his after barely a second, infinitely more creeped out by the mask now that daylight is illuminating every blank, expressionless feature.   
  
You don't expect an answer and don't get one, but that's fine. You're doing this more for your own comfort than to communicate with him - the strained silence between you keeps your pulse fluttering nervously, your own hurried breaths just a hair away from dissolving into panicked little gasps.   
  
"You can wait downstairs - if you want. I'll make breakfast in a bit."  
  
_Pull yourself together_ , you think as you slide the bathroom door closed behind you, as you slouch back against it in relief. You're more terrified of him this morning than you were of the dark shape in your kitchen. Then you could attribute his stalking to some practical reason - to make sure you wouldn't try to escape or call the cops. He broke into your room to steal your knife and came back because he needed you to patch him up again.  
  
But there's no excuse for you to make for his behavior this morning.   
  
There's no reason for him to watch you as you sleep apart from him _wanting_ to.  
  
And the way he'd looked at you - you're not sure if it's your wounds that hold his attention, some innate fascination he has for blood and violence, or if it's your vulnerability, how you unconsciously keep behaving like submissive prey around him.  
  
Your fingers tremble as you grab for your hairbrush.  
  
His steps in the hallway make you curl into yourself, terrified he'll break in like he did into your bedroom. You consider if you could possibly use the brush as a weapon and find your own thought ridiculous; he got shot six times for fuck's sake. What are you going to do to him with the hairbrush? Rip out the unruly auburn hair of the mask? Still, you clutch it in your hand when you hear him breath in front of the door for a few tense seconds, fingers clenched around it so tight you have trouble relaxing them once you hear him take the stairs.  
  
This morning you take longer for your routine than you have ever before.

  
  
  
Your wound doesn't look great. The skin around it is tinged red and feels hot to the touch, and you wince with every movement that strains your stomach muscles. You just hope it isn't infected already, take great care with cleaning it as best as you can.   
  
It will have to do.  
  
He's in your living room by the time you go downstairs, standing to the side of the big window overlooking the street outside, blank stare fixed on the empty sidewalk. The mask turns around to watch as you step inside and reach for the remote, turning on the local news station again, stays firmly on you even as a young reporter in a stiff-looking suit announces the title of the topic: _Michael Myers - dead or on the run?_  
  
It turns out to be a very long-winded recap of the events in Haddonfield during the last three days, and you're about to leave when the reporter closes the topic with an interesting bit of info that you wish he'd expand upon.   
  
_"Police are now questioning the statement made by Myers' doctor who claims to have shot him six times during their encounter on october 31st as the only other witness, Laurie Strode, 17 years old, struggles to remember much of what happened during the night. Strode suffered an allergic reaction to her shock medication at Haddonfield Memorial Hospital and has since been transferred to a different care facility out of state."  
_  
He got shot six times alright, but you guess you wouldn't believe it either had you not personally seen the injuries for yourself.   
  
Still, it's interesting - you grit your teeth as you walk over to the kitchen, try to imagine what that will mean for the ongoing investigation. If they believe him unharmed they might be more inclined to keep patrolling the streets, perhaps even start questioning bigger parts of the populace of Haddonfield for any witness reports. On the other hand this could be a good thing if Michael stays low for while. Maybe they'll think he left Haddonfield if no more incidents occur.  
  
_If no new corpses turn up, you mean,_ you think to yourself as you reach into the fridge, not surprised to see him stalk you from the hallway out of the corner of your eyes. He doesn't even attempt to hide it, simply stands there out in the open, arms relaxed at his sides.   
  
You ignore him as you prepare two buttered sandwiches and some coffee.  
  
When you turn around to put the used cutlery in the sink you notice the granola bars you laid out the night before, still sitting where you put them on top of the counter.  
  
"Oh", you say softly, surprise coloring your voice. Did he not eat _anything_ during the last two days...? As far as you can tell nothing's missing from your fridge, and you doubt he walked up to a store in town when he borrowed your car to get some lunch. Even if he took off the mask - you're sure they've been airing his picture over and over again, repeated their reports about the escaped mental patient hourly, to a point where even the most socially withdrawn resident of Haddonfield would at least pause at seeing a young man they don't recognize around town.  
  
"I set the granola bars out for you last night", you explain, looking over at Michael who stands still as a marble statue in your hallway, only sign he's even alive the slow rise and fall of his chest and the muffled breathing from beneath the mask. You gesticulate towards the counter but let your arm fall back down once you realise he can't see it from his position in the hallway, flushing in embarassment at your own awkwardness. "Thought you might be hungry."   
  
You duck your head at his lack of reaction and step up to the counter to add the bread knives to the growing pile of dirty dishes in your sink -  
  
and freeze in place when he takes his next deep breath from _right behind you_.  
  
_How,_ you think, panicked, _can he move this fast while being so quiet?  
_  
Your heart starts fluttering like a frightened bird's wings in your chest and you feel angry at yourself and your own inability to stop acting like helpless prey whenever he enters your personal space. Hushed little gasps escape from between your lips, a stark contrast to his almost indifferent, unmoved silence behind you.  
  
He steps close enough for you to feel his body heat, the warmth of his exhales on your exposed neck. Goosebumps break out along your skin and you can't stop the uncertain tremor going down your spine, whimpering when he rasps in a harsh, throaty breath in response.   
  
For a second he leans even more into you, the hard line of his chest pressing to your back.  
  
You're convinced he's going to do it now. Wrap those inhumanly strong fingers around your throat, squeeze the life out of you, watch with detached curiosity as your body sinks to the floor like a broken ragdoll. Involuntarily you imagine what he must look like towering above you; you're small compared to him, weak, utterly unable to resist him in any way or form.  
  
Heat joins the coil of fear and nerves in your stomach at that last thought. You quickly swallow it down, disgusted with yourself.   
  
" _Michael_ ", you hiss when he raises one arm, feeling the low sound in his chest more than you hear it with how little distance is between you; the rough cloth of his coveralls brushes your shoulder, his arm reaches around you -  
  
_and his fingers curl around the granola bar you'd all but forgotten about._  
  
A second later he's out of your back door without sparing you another glance.  
  
Your jaw drops when you hear the distinct sound of plastic being ripped open out on your porch, the crunch that has to be his first bite - and then you hurry after him once it hits you that he's stepping outside in full daylight, in his serial killer getup that was all over the news.  
  
Of course he's gone by the time you stumble out behind him.  
  
The full force of your adrenaline slams into you and you grab at the wall for support, trying to process whatever just happened while simultaneously freaking out at the prospect of him walking around Haddonfield on a schoolday morning, where half the city is out on the streets.  
  
You know he's playing with you, invading your personal space on purpose - whether he does it because it amuses him or he finds your reactions interesting you don't know, but it doesn't matter either way, seeing as you are helpless to stop it. There must be something that he wanted from you this morning, some reason he pushed you so much.   
  
Maybe he left because you didn't give him what he wanted? Though you can't for the life of you figure out what else he could want besides your fear, of which you gave him more than enough: with his chest pressed against you he practically must have _felt_ your pounding heart, felt your shudder against him...  
  
You spend a good five minutes outside in raw panic before a very somber, very rational thought pushes you out of it.  
  
_It's not really your problem if he gets caught now, is it?  
_  
You didn't hear him take the car. He didn't look like he had anything on him apart from the mask and his clothing. The bandages he could have stolen anywhere.   
  
They won't be able to link him to you in any way - hell, they'll probably not even know you met if he keeps up his silence...  
  
He was out in town in your car once before without getting caught. He'll probably be fine.  
  
You just hope he won't use this opportunity to leave behind more corpses. Eventually that trail will catch up to you if he keeps coming back - which you're sure he will.  
  
  
  
  
By the time you leave for work you've talked yourself into a state of relative calm, anxiety held at bay in the pit of your stomach. You're almost looking forward to a long, boring shift - it'll give you time to digest what happened in your kitchen this morning.  
  
You're surprised to see your coworker stick around when you step out of the back room in your work uniform, lingering around the cash register with some kind of magazine spread on top of the counter. Usually she's gone by the time you're finished dressing - you've barely spoken more than two sentences to each other in over nine months of you working here.   
  
She waves you over when she sees you, greets you with a smile.  
  
The returning quirk of your lips slides right off of your face as she tells you that police were here to question her this morning.  
  
"They wanted to know if I saw anything out of the ordinary - if anyone weird has been around this week, specifically on Halloween."  
  
"Do they want _me_ to come in for questioning as well?", you interrupt her, biting your tongue a second later when she gives you a weird look.  
  
"Why would they? You were on vacation until yesterday. Can't see anything unusual when you're not at work."  
  
You shrug, laugh awkwardly, try to hide the panic bubbling up in your chest. If they're still looking for him there's actually a good chance they'll come back to ask around a second time - and if they figure out _you_ worked the evening shift yesterday...  
  
She shakes her head before bending it closer to yours, whispers in a conspiratory tone even though you're alone in the station.  
  
"I think they were asking because of this."  
  
You take the magazine she pushes in your direction, already knowing what the headline is going to be.  
  
_Escaped mental patient still missing._  
  
"You live over in Haddonfield, right? Crazy stuff you have happening there."  
  
You nod.  
  
She purses her lips at your unenthusiastic reaction, taps her fingers to her chin before perking up again.  
  
"Did you see that interview with his doctor?"  
  
_Now_ she's got your attention, and she notices immediately, flashing you a winning grin.  
  
"He said that Myers hasn't said a word in fifteen years - fifteen years, can you imagine that?"  
  
No, you can't, and you tell her so, mulling that bit of information over in your head as she chatters on about some of the things you already know.  
  
_Is he unable to talk or unwilling?_ Either way, it explains his continued silence.  
  
"Not even remotely human, that's what he said - isn't that wild? That his own doctor thinks that way about him?"  
  
"Controversial statement for a doctor", you answer, surprised when she agrees with you.  
  
Though you can't really begrudge him his opinion, seeing as Michael shrugged off six bullets to the chest.  
  
She's flipping through the magazine now, looking for a specific page.  
  
"They have a picture of Myers in here somewhere, you gotta look at it, it's _so_ creepy."  
  
She stops when she finds it, hesitates for a moment before handing it over.   
  
"I mean, he's handsome, but there's just something about him..."  
  
You want to be weirded out by her statement - _you're talking about a psychopathic serial killer_ -, but when you see the picture you realise she's not wrong.  
  
There's an almost classically handsome quality to his features: the straight nose, sharp jawline and high cheekbones, even brows and full lips; you already know the icy-blue color of his eyes but you've never seen them within the full context of his face, have never had the opportunity to notice how full and long his dark lashes lay above them. His hair is nice as well, soft-looking brown curls that you have a hard time picturing matted flat beneath the mask.  
  
But his good looks can really only distract from there being something deeply wrong about him for a moment, for barely more than the first impression; you know what she means when she says he's creepy. The longer you look at the picture, the more it seems like he's wearing the white mask without it physically being there.  
  
There's absolutely no expression to his face at all. Sure, it's an official picture taken at a mental hospital, but still - he seems far-away, detached, like only his body was present for the photo being taken. Like you're only looking at something playing at and not actually being human. You almost preferred the featureless surface of the mask to knowing what his face looks like beneath. With the mask on it's easy to forget there's a _person_ wearing it - to attribute all of his actions to the inhuman latex. A monster doing those things is expected, almost mundane in its horror.  
  
Monsters kill people; that's just what they do.  
  
You coworker takes your prolongued silence as her cue to barrel on, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she whistles through her teeth.  
  
"Isn't it just a total waste? I wouldn't mind if a guy who looks like that asked for my number..."  
  
She giggles when you give her a disbelieving look.  
  
"Just kidding. Well, I gotta go now. See you tomorrow!"  
  
  
  
  
For eight long hours you stare out of the window, straining your eyes to see a police car driving up or a white mask flash out from between the gas pumps. Hardly any customers stop by - only a handful of college kids on their way home for the weekend and a tired-looking truck driver.   
  
One wouldn't think you had a slow shift behind you if one looked at you, though. You're an anxious mess when you finally pull the back room door closed, body trembling all over as you change back into your own clothing.   
  
The drive home has you finally relax, slumping in your seat in exhaustion. You didn't get much sleep lately, and your body is quick to remind you that you sorely need it as soon as you're not high-strung on nerves.  
  
You only notice the roadblock when it's too late, too distracted by trying to keep yourself awake.  
  
Blood rushes in your ears, but you assure yourself it's going to be fine. You can just cycle around, take the highway down south and enter Haddonfield through that route. It will take about an hour, but you don't mind.   
  
Your flimsy attempt at keeping your panic in check is over as soon as it starts, because -  
  
_there's a cop waving you over._  
  
He stands next to the station wagon that you missed in the dark, parked right next to the old sign that welcomes visitors with 'Haddonfield' written in plain letters.  
  
The low simmer of your paranoia raises to a burning fever pitch.   
  
_Oh please no. Please don't._  
  
For a split-second you wonder if he can see your license plate in the dark.  
  
_Don't be stupid. Drive up. Act normal._  
  
So you do, your fingers clenched so hard around your steering wheel that you're afraid you're going to have to pry them off of it later.   
  
"Evening", he greets you when you roll down your window, and you have to clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering when his gaze flits over you, curious.  
  
_Don't ask for my license. Don't ask for my license. Don't ask_ \- it's a mantra you repeat in your head, almost sobbing in relief when it turns out he has no interest in you specifically at all. There's a commotion in Haddonfield, he explains as cold sweat slides down your neck, and you're grateful for the late hour that hopefully does a good job at hiding your painfully obvious nervous ticks.   
  
Commotion. Did they catch Michael...?  
  
You're not sure you believe that.  
  
"Where in Haddonfield do you live?", the cop asks when you tell him that you're on your way home from work, your voice cracking slightly at the edges. If he notices, he doesn't comment on it, and that worries you more than if he did.  
  
And then his question registers and all hell breaks loose inside your head.  
  
_He's not suspicious of you at all,_ you try to tell yourself, swallowing around a sudden hard lump in your throat, _he didn't even ask your name yet._ But you can't help your instinctual reaction. People asking questions about you has always been bad news, even worse if it's cops.   
  
He visibly relaxes at your answer.  
  
"Okay, well then - just thought you were another one of those damn reporters. It's like a circus on Chestnut street right now, I tell you..."  
  
His face scrunches up in thought, then he shrugs, offers to let you through if you drive straight home and not anywhere close to Chestnut street in northern Haddonfield. You promise not to; it's in the opposite direction of your way home anyway.  
  
_He didn't ask for your ID. He didn't ask for your license. Calm down_. _You have to calm down. Nothing happened. He didn't_ \- and so on your mind goes, stuck on that train of thought like a broken record.  
  
You drive until you're sure you're out of his sight, then you stop the car in an empty parking lot, almost seizing in your seat, heaving desperate breaths and sweating like you just ran a marathon.  
  
Thud, thud, thud, your fists meet the wheel. Thud, thud, thud goes your heart.  
  
You just got incredibly lucky.  
  
  
  
  
The shape lunges from its hiding spot in the shadows with the knife already drawn, plunging it into its unsuspecting victim's throat. A twist of its powerful forearm produces a spray of blood, another has the victims neck snap like a twig.   
  
It watches as the victim lets out a final wet sound, tilts its head at the way the body twists in its last moments.   
  
As one Dr. Sam Loomis opens his on-air monologue about the personified evil he met 15 years ago and you wail in your car so hard you're coming unglued around the edges the shape slips out of the house unseen, makes its way through backyards and gardens at an unbothered, almost casual pace.  
  
After the incredible thrill of the knife meeting soft skin the shape comes down to a state of calm.  
  
Tonight it might just be the only calm being in all of Haddonfield.  
  
  
  
  
It's almost midnight by the time you start up your car again.   
  
You drive at a snail's pace and like in a trance, spent, the well of your swirling emotions run dry for the moment.   
  
The drive to your house passes by eerily quiet; despite what must be happening in Haddonfield now you don't see a single car, not a single person out on the street.  
  
Michael's not there when you push open your front door.  
  
You check every single room, turn on all the lights and leave them like that, unwilling to let him get the jump on you again.  
  
With your nerves still on edge and a jittery, nervous energy about you you decide against going to bed right away despite feeling so tired earlier; you'd probably end up laying awake for hours anyway, twisting and turning as your conversation with the cop plays over and over in your head. You'd analyze everything you said, doubt every look he gave you.   
  
Much better to be productive and get the mess that is your kitchen under control again.  
  
You get lulled into a sense of calm by the repetitive motion of scrubbing a sponge against the dirty dishes in your sink, by the warm water beneath your fingers. Thus distracted you fail to notice the soft steps on your back porch, the low creak of your door as it swings open.  
  
  
  
  
You don't see the dark shape stepping inside your kitchen, hands smeared with blood, a long knife you'd find all too familiar hanging at its side.  
  
It stops for a split-second when it notices you, considers the curve of your neck bend over the sink, follows the line of your exposed throat with one icy-blue eye before it steps back into the shadows, lurking from beyond your field of vision.  
  
This morning its heartbeat had been rhythmic but fast when it watched you; now its fingers stay relaxed around the knife, its breathing even and deep.  
  
Its urges have been satisfied. For now the shape is content to simply watch.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader-centric chapter. Reader's working through some things, Michael's being creepy and Loomis is his usual self.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically this and what's now going to be chapter 5 were going to be one chapter, but it was getting out of hand length-wise, so I decided to split it. As a result this is a very reader-centric chapter as the plot needs her to work through some things. It'll pay off later. Next chapter we're back on track for the promised slow burn and eventual smut. ;)

Your encounter with the cop seems very far away. It has no place here in your kitchen between the low hum of your lamp and the luke-warm water in your sink, every stray thought of it still clinging to your mind drained further with each swipe of the towel against wet plates. Right now, you feel settled - the simple domesticity of cleaning your dishes leaves no room for the paranoia still on a low simmer in the pit of your stomach.

That, and you're terribly exhausted, the feverish-hot thrum of your wound in counterpoint to the cold sweat sticking to your neck.

The illusion of piece cracks around the corners as a cold gust of air rushes over your spine and makes you shiver involuntarily, has you whip around with the beginnings of panic crawling up your throat, eyes sliding over the door leading out on your back porch -

and finding it firmly closed, just as it had been when you'd searched the house for Michael earlier. He's not here, you try to reassure yourself, succeeding somewhat only once you step up to the window overlooking your porch and garden and see nothing out of the ordinary, unruly piles of leaves and branches littered over the grass but no white masks staring at you from out of the darkness. 

_You need to calm down._

A sizable amount of dishes still waits for you in your sink. _  
_

With some effort you swallow down the unease lingering on the back of your tongue and return to your task, easing into it again when minutes come and go and nothing interrupts the peace in your kitchen. _  
_

You're unaware of the shadows stretching out too far at the edge of the room.

The shape watches as you pick up a stack of dishes and lift it to the cupboard, the heavy rasp of its breath lost underneath the ceramic clink of plates and water sloshing in the sink.

It had come down to a state of calm after the earlier euphoria of killing; now the rythm of its heart accelerates as you stretch and groan, its fingers tight around the knife as it considers the exposed skin of your hips, if you'd feel as soft and vulnerable there as you felt beneath its grip on your throat.

Soapy dishwater between your fingers, the low patter of raindrops against your window, the warm light of your kitchen lamp - what should be a relaxing autumn evening turns instead into a scene straight out of a horror movie, unseen eyes on your neck, dark figures creeping closer every time you turn your back on them. It's a tremor in the pit of your stomach, a shiver along your spine, your lizard brain yelling at you to turn around and check - yet every time you do there's no-one there, room empty except for you and your dirty dishes.

_He's not here_ , you repeat to yourself, again and again and again, but the feeling of being watched persists through it, sinks into your bones too deep to shake it off.

The skin of your hands has turned soft and wrinkled when you finally tug at the plug in your sink, a glance at your clock revealing to you that midnight has come and gone. You missed it, too busy straining your ears for steps in your hallway, grip twitching around the slippery-wet plates at every unexpected slosh of water. You're suspicious of everything, anxiety and nerves turning raindrops on your porch into footsteps down your hallway and the dry rustle of the towel into coveralls brushing along a strong arm as it raises to wrap burning-hot fingers around your throat -

_It's all in your head. You're imagining things._

So you try to tell yourself, but your fear won''t be bargained with. You try to appease it by checking your window again and find the stairs up to the door slick and shiny, a proper autumn shower pouring down outside.

The fear sticks around, curls heavy around your shoulders, nestles deep inside your ripcage. It coils around your heart and squeezes, makes it flutter with a fast, strained rythm in your chest. You're not certain what you're more afraid of in that moment - if it's the serial killer that the lizard part of your brain insists must be lurking around the corner or the thought that right now the cop from before might be checking the records of your property; it's the combination of both that has your breaths come quicker, has your blood rush in your ears.

You're frozen in place, paralyzed with panic. Outside the wind howls through your garden, throws thick drops up against the window, volume rising until it adds to the horror of the moment instead of detracting from it. You won't be able to hear those footsteps you're so afraid of coming up behind you, won't pick up on breathing muffled and quiet behind a mask -

Fuck, you need to get out of your kitchen. Do something, anything - call Jennie's mom, put on the TV or radio. Like this you'll frighten yourself into a panic attack, squinting at the darkness outside and suspecting white latex behind every stray ray of light reflected by a raindrop. You latch on to the first idea despite the late hour; you promised to call her anyway, and you know she sometimes stays up late to watch movies with her husband. Worst case nobody will pick up and she'll be annoyed, and then you can still put on the late night commercials and apologize in the morning...

You don't notice the shape lingering on the bottom step of your hallway stairs as you make your way into the living room. It waits there, patient, until you start talking into the receiver; then it moves closer, its steps impossibly quiet and graceful for a man its size, its heavy breathing hidden beneath the scratch of your voice. Its grip around the knife has turned white-knuckled. The fingers of its other hand curl around the wooden frame as it stands there and stares, the stiff line of its shoulders unmoving.

The shape tilts its head, slowly to the left, as it watches you pick up the phone to check outside your window - slinks soundlessly back into the shadows when you turn around under the weight of its gaze prickling on your neck. 

"So, I'll come over after lunch?", you ask, twirling the phone cord between your fingers absent-mindedly as you listen to her answer, gaze traveling from the hallway back to the tv you have running with the sound turned off. You're still afraid but less so than before; it's hard to stay panicked with Jennie's mom chattering about her upcoming vacation and ridiculously over the top vacuum cleaner commercials flitting over the screen. Still, you stay on alert - the feeling of being watched is less stiffling than before, less immediate, but it hasn't subsided completely.

Maybe you _are_ imagining things - today had been a long day.

There's a short lull in the conversation. You can hear muffled voices from the other end of the line; she must have put her hand over the receiver to talk to her husband.

_For only two-hundred dollars you can get the best cleaning experience of your life!_

With a yawn you sit down on the edge of your couch and roll your eyes at the tv, surprised to find them droop a little as you sink back into the cushions. Seems like exhaustion is finally catching up to you enough to win out over your rampant paranoia. 

"Hey, did you see the interview this evening?" She sighs when you point out that you were at work until 10, voice unusually serious despite the cheery movie soundtrack still blaring in the background on her side of the call. "Well, I'm sure they'll air it again in the morning. You should probably watch it..." 

Your brows pinch in confusion when she trails off. "What interview?"

"I don't want you to worry. It's already scary I imagine, with you living alone -", her husband comments something, too far away from the receiver to pick out single words, and she sighs again, clears her throat before continuing. "They interviewed his doctor - you know, the guy who's all over the news. The mental patient who killed those kids. His doctor thinks he's still out there - yes, I can't believe they aired that either. Maybe the police wasn't informed in advance? Yeah, I guess..."

She launches into a discussion with her husband, only remembers to put her hand over the receiver halfway through, but you've stopped listening anyway, heart beating hard in your throat, thoughts racing at what she just told you.

_This is bad news. If his doctor thinks he's still out there the police might as well, and if the police thinks he's still out there they'll keep looking for him, and if they keep looking for him they'll start asking around for witnesses, and then -_

"You okay?"

You snap out of it, embarassed that she must have heard your panicked gasp over the phone.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just tired."

She launches into a tirade about how she and her husband don't believe his doctor at all, that the police released a statement right after confirming that they have everything under control and there's nothing to worry, and that she just wanted you to know because you seemed so interested in the story the day before, and on and on and on. You're not sure if she's being sincere or just trying to calm you down, but you silently thank her anyway - it works, the monologue smoothing over the new rush of nerves prickling on your neck. 

Not much later you say your good nights.

A click on her end of the line and you're alone again.

You turn up the volume of your tv until it drowns out the sound of rain pouring outside and slide back into the cushions with one arm wrapped around your stomach where you feel your wound pound in time with your heartbeat, the skin beneath your shirt feverish-hot. It would probably be a good idea to clean it properly in the shower before bed, but you can't stand the thought of going upstairs yet - it'll be quiet there, with no tv or radio in the room, the water hitting your roof and sliding down your balcony louder even than it had been in your kitchen.

With the feeling of being watched mostly gone you decide to stay on your couch for just a bit longer, the racing of your thoughts slowing beneath a heavy blanket of exhaustion.

Soon your eyes fall closed, unaware of the shadows moving in your hallway.

The shape steps into your living room without making sound. It leans over you, tall frame casting a shadow on your curled-up form, head tilting this side and that as if considering you from every angle. It observes without expression as you shiver and twitch on top of the cushions, face as blank as the white latex above despite the deep rasp of its breathing and the raw intensity in its stiff stance. Its heart beats rythmic and powerful in its chest, fast with anticipation. 

The shape watches with detached curiosity as you toss your head in your sleep, patient as its icy stare travels over your quivering lips and fluttering lashes, inhumanly still beside your couch. Suddenly, as if set off by a silent alarm only it could hear, it turns, pace even and purposeful as it slides out of your house.

Its night isn't over yet.

Bright light floods your living room come morning.

It paints your walls a soft gold, warmer than it has any business to be with the season so advanced. For a second you feel comfortable bathing in sunlight, cold sweat glistening on your skin in a thin layer momentarily forgotten. Your stomach pounds angry-hot but that's fine, your shirt sticks to you, damp and clammy, and you think that's all right as well; with your fear and anxiety melting in the domestic everyday atmosphere you couldn't care less about the pitiful sight you make curled up on the cushions, can't bring yourself to worry about how open and vulnerable you left yourself, sleeping on the couch like this.

You're still alive. There's no breathing in the room aside from your own. No intense stare on the back of your neck that triggers a deep, instinctive fear - the fear of prey when in presence of a predator. Only thing disturbing the silence is the morning show playing on your tv screen - _don't forget to watch the news for that interview_ , you remind yourself, still sleepy, more curious than worried about it for now.

You roll onto your side, grope around for the tv remote blindly - wrench your arm back in shock when your hand meets something very hard and very cold, foreign and strange on your living room table.

_Don't look at it_ , you beg yourself, _ignore that it's there._

And just like that nothing's fine, or all right, or peacefully domestic anymore, because you know the cold metal blade of a knife beneath your fingers intimately enough to recognize it before your eyes travel over to the table, because you don't need to see to know what clings to the tip of your fingers, sticky and wet -

It's your knife. That stupid knife you bought at the garage sale.

That's the only thing registering in your mind, at first. Not the blood smeared across blade and handle, not the fact that there's only one way for it to end up back in your house. It's that same one you used to cull your own urges, over and over again; it knows your body intimately, has even been inside you when you plunged it into your stomach on halloween night.

And now it's been used to kill. To take care of a very different urge.

_Murder weapon_ , your mind supplies, _evidence - evidence on your living room table -_

_You touched it_ , you think, body seizing, clawing your fingers into the cushions for something, anything to hold on to, _you have a victim's blood on your fingers and all over your living room table - they'll know, they'll catch you, you're done for - there's nothing you can do, nothing you can do at all -_

Distantly you're aware that you're hyperventilating, chest heaving with the strength and speed of your breaths, but you're helpless, can't stop the approaching panic attack. Helplessness and the loss of control cling to you, sticky and disgusting, overpowering any rational thought. He might still be in the house, you should feel sorry for his victim but don't, none of it matters because the only thought pounding madly in your head is that the cop you gave your adress to might ring the doorbell any minute; you won't be able to take it, not with your throat still raw from crying in your car last night, with searing-hot pain blooming further out from your stomach and tremors wracking your frame, but there's no stopping the approaching breakdown.

It's useless. The panic is too strong, the wave of it crushing into your mind too monumental. 

You come out the other side of it feeling like you got run over by a truck. 

Everything hurts.

The stomach wound, your throat, your eyes, your back, the muscles in your limbs. 

_It's all right_ , you think. _I deserve it._

You do. Despite your panic deflating you can't dredge up an appropriate amount of sympathy for whoever died last night. You're alive, and the police isn't on your doorstep yet. That's all that matters. Even if it's proof of your selfishness.

He's not there when you take the knife into the kitchen on uncertain legs.

Maybe he'd been in the house all along last night, but for now he's gone. Idly, wonderfully detached in the wake of your panic, you wonder if he left the knife behind for any reason at all, or if he simply had no further use for it. If it's part of him playing with you.

Your living room table is harder to clean; you can't just throw it in the sink and let it soak. So you go on your knees in front of it and wipe and wipe and wipe, wipe until you're sure you'll have bruises from kneeling on the hard ground for so long, until the soft skin of your fingerpads starts splitting from the harsh cleaning chemicals and the pit of your stomach burns hot with the strain your position puts on your wound. It's not so bad, if you don't let yourself think about it too hard. Not too terribly different from scrubbing down your plates. And it's not the first time you've got to get blood out of furniture either. By the time you're done you feel almost settled, last hints of panic flushing down the drain with the blood you wring out of the towel.

For the first time in a while your thoughts move at a normal pace, no longer race unchecked through your head.

Still an hour left until the morning news. You decide to take a long, hot shower, your mind blessedly silent and empty all throughout. With sweat and grime washing out of your hair and the tear tracks gone from your cheeks you start feeling a little like yourself again. Even your wound doesn't look worse, though obviously it hasn't healed much either, between two panic attacks and your general lack of care.

The knife sits on the edge of your bathtub and watches while you scrub away at your skin until it's flushed angry-red all over, until the pads of your fingers peel and you're certain that not even a molecule of someone else's blood could still be detected on you. You suppose that's far from the worst thing it has seen in the last 24 hours. You hide it beneath your pillow before you go back downstairs, more to be petty than to keep it around for self-defense. _Let him find his own murder weapon next time, one that can't be tracked back to you_ , you think, your emotional detachment turning you cynical.

Ten minutes left 'till the morning news. You fix yourself a bowl of cereal while you wait, a cramp in your stomach alerting you to the fact that you haven't eaten very well lately. The boring morning talkshow still flitting over your screen has to be a good sign. One would expect them to interrupt the program if police found more bodies in Haddonfield, especially after what happened in town since halloween night. 

Your suspicions prove right when the news start with a report on a car accident that occured in the rain last night. You doubt they'd postpone any info on more killings for a lengthy interview with the driver that pretty much amounts to don't drive when drunk. 

You mentally tune out when they transition into a discussion about the lack of funding for local schools, playing with the thought of calling Jennie's mom and asking her for details on that interview if they don't put in on air again.

Seems you're getting ahead of yourself. 

_"And now, for those among us who need their beauty sleep and don't stay up to watch the late night news. On halloween night three teenagers were found killed in one house located on Chestnut Street. Police have since confirmed the identity of their prime suspect to be Michael Myers, a patient of Smith's Grove who escaped during the incident that occured there on the 30th of October. Myers, according to police, was heavily injured on the night of his supposed crimes and has since gone missing. Last night we had the honor of conducting an exclusive interview with his doctor of 15 years, Dr. Samuel Loomis. Please stay tuned in to watch this interesting and highly informative view into the mind of who might just be a wanted killer."_

Much like with his patient, you wouldn't assume Dr. Loomis' profession correctly based on his looks alone. He's a balding man north of his forties, wrapped in a trenchcoat several sizes too big and with an intense expression to his otherwise tired and worn-out features, a sort of on-edge energy about him that's obvious even through the grainy camera footage.

The interview has been tampered with already. You don't need to have a background in tv to know that. With weird cuts and a constantly changing camera angle you assume they had to cut out large pieces under police orders - probably the more gory details on the murders, or anything sensitive regarding the suspect's personal information. Still, what they left intact is enough to leave an impression.

_"There was nothing behind his eyes - no remorse, no understanding of right and wrong... no conscious thought... unreceptive to treatment ... sat in his room for 15 years, staring at the wall... inhumantly patient... purely and simply evil..."_

Even in your brightly-lit living room his words make you shiver. Yet, like with his statements in the magazine, they give you pause as well; he doesn't sound like a doctor, speaking of the devil come alive with sincere urgency in his voice. There had been a moment that first night where your terror had turned the shape in your hallway into something more, something otherworldly and monstrous - but that had been your panic speaking, irrational fear clouding logical thought because you'd seen something your mind didn't know how to process. 

He _did_ bleed all over your house. His injuries _did_ knock him out. As much as you'd prefer to believe that only monsters are capable of doing what he did - what he continues to do -, you can't. What you found in your hallway on halloween night had been human - remorseless, psychopathic, evil, but human nonetheless.

_"He won't stop killing until he's dead.."_

White static suddenly interrupts the sentence, makes you jolt where you'd involuntarily leaned forwards on the couch, eyes glued to the screen in rapt attention. It's a grim notion to end the interview on, and it takes a long while until the screen cuts back to boring commercials. You wonder how much trouble the station will be in for airing the interview again when they clearly weren't allowed to.

_What are you going to do if really doesn't stop killing?_ , you ask yourself, but you can't come up with a satisfying answer. Eventually, you suppose, he'll try to kill you - once he gets whatever else it is he wants from you. If he doesn't lead the police to your door first. It doesn't matter if they'll come looking for a witness or a suspect - you'll be done either way. Already you're walking on thin ice now that one of them has your adress, even if he didn't take the time to write it down - which you don't know. 

_Call your bank later._

You pushed it off until now because, if you're honest with yourself, you don't want to leave Haddonfield, don't want to have to start over again. Life isn't great between minimum wage jobs and your constant paranoia, but right now, it's about as good as it's realistically going to get with the baggage you're lugging around, the trail following after you. 

Whether you like it or not - and you don't -, it's about time you start planning ahead.

There's another idea growing in the back of your mind, one that has you blink at the face staring at you from your mirror, hardly recognizing yourself there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this chapter. Like, a lot. It went through no less than FOUR iterations before I managed to wrangle this draft into shape. Half of this comes down to writer's block, the other half was me almost throwing my attempts at a plot and a reader character with agency over board for the sake of (earlier) smut. 
> 
> Honestly, I don't even know if anyone cares to have a reader character with development and reasons, I'm not even sure myself that I care at this point, but I set out with that goal in mind and goddamn I'm sticking to it, even if I'm struggling™.
> 
> At least this will end up having enough plot to justify me writing, like, at least a hundred smutty oneshots afterwards...


End file.
